


An Acceptable Trade

by Skull_Bearer



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Drift Side Effects, Flying, Gore, Kaiju Hermann Gottlieb, Kaiju Newton Geiszler, Kaiju transformation, Kaiju virus, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:12:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skull_Bearer/pseuds/Skull_Bearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it better to live than die? Is it better to live a monster than die a human? And if it is, can you be happy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to GluetheGrue for their incredible prompts and artwork! Find them here: http://gluethegrue.tumblr.com/
> 
> This is a mixture of prompts from my Thousand Worlds series, and an art/fic exchange with GluetheGrue

 

It wasn’t the Drift, in the end.

It was to be expected, given the conditions they’d been working in, by the end, no funds for protective clothing and - fuck- even Chau’s men had worked in better conditions. So the doctors had passed the verdict down and Newt- wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t angry or upset or anything beyond the strange feeling that all the strength in his body was slowly leaving him through the floor.

Hermann had made up for it. Something in him has snapped and he’d screamed and shouted and might have knocked the head doctor through her monitoring station had Newt not grabbed his hand and  _hung on_. And he’d looked at Newt and his expression was so  _broken_ Newt wanted to cry and fuck, wasn’t that just perfect that it wasn’t terminal Kaiju Blue poisoning but  _Hermann_  that made him break, in the end.

Then, there wasn’t anything left to do but wait.

They’d found a nice place, a quiet place. A small house tucked away far from anyone, far from the sea. And Hermann had come and Newt could close his eyes and pretend it was perfect if it wasn’t for the way Hermann hung on to him that little too long, touched him that little too often, storing away memories for when he’d have nothing else.

And the wait. The nerve racking, sickening  _wait_ , to see how it would manifest. If his skin would turn grey and start sloughing off in layers. Or his blood turn purplish and thick and stop clotting and hemorrhage out of his nose and eyes and mouth. Or if he’d just be one of the lucky ones and he’d feel fine until he just keeled over dead and they’d cut him open and his organs would have tripled in size until his heart burst from the pressure.

Until one morning when Newt waits and knows it’s come. His skin itches somewhere deep in the epidermis, and his bones  _ache_  like growing pains all over again. And Newt gets up slowly because he hurts all over and he doesn’t want to wake Hermann. Let Hermann have another few hours of sleep, of not knowing.

And he goes into the bathroom and turns on the light and doesn’t dare to look in the mirror at first because he doesn’t want to see, he doesn’t want to know. He’s a rockstar and rockstars die young but he  _doesn’t want to_  and it’s like he’s jumped three stages of acceptance from shock right into despair and tears burn his eyes when he finally manages to get them open.

And stares.

His skin is unmarked. There is no sign of the deep bruises that precede hemorrhage. When he touches his face, his fingers touch hard ridges deep within the flesh, as though scales are slowly forming under there.

His pupils are sharp, vertical slits.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The bleeding is a shock. He’s half out of his clothes, trying to see how extensive the changes are, and the sleeves of his sleep shirt are dappled red. Newt looks in the mirror and the blood’s coming from his nose- bright red, and when he wipes the worse of it off he can feel the grainy flesh where the membranes inside his nose are sloughing off.

He’s not dying. At least, he doesn’t think so. He’s never seen symptoms like this. The blood is slick and metallic in his mouth and he hunches over the sink to keep from choking on the stuff-

“No.” It’s barely a whisper behind him and Newt spins around.

Hermann is ash-pale, shivering. He takes two step forwards and nearly falls; “No, god Newt please-”

“It’s okay.” Newt tries to say, but it comes out in a meaningless burble of fluids.

Hermann reaches him, clings so close Newt’s getting blood all over him and he doesn’t seem to care hanging on to Newt as though he’d slip away if Hermann loosened his grip. Newt swallows the hot metal of his own blood and tries again, “Herms, it’s not-” His voice is thick even to his own ears.

He doesn’t need to continue, Hermann stops, freezing so suddenly Newt nearly loses his balance. His hands come up to Newt’s face, thumb drawing down his lower lip.

Even that slight pressure is too much and Newt struggles not to cry out, the pain suddenly blinding as a tooth pops free. He grits his teeth instinctively and tears spring from his eyes as his teeth shift loose, as the sharp new teeth pushing through prick the inside of his mouth.

Hermann isn’t crying any more. He’s staring at Newt, lost. Newt has never seen him look so lost. Not when his numbers were wrong, or when he found Newt after the Drift, or even when the doctors gave him their prognosis.

And now, like then, it’s the last straw.

“I don’t know what’s happening-"it’s half a sob, the words blunted and deformed by his tears, his shedding teeth, the blood filling his mouth and nose.

He reaches out to Hermann, trying to just- hang on- and his nails are gone too, bloody little bone hooks protruding in their place and  _he doesn’t know what to do_  he he can’t touch Hermann or anything and he’s terrified to  _move_  because something else will happen and he’d almost prefer to be dying because at least he’d understand what was happening to him-

And Hermann is there, his arms around Newt’s shoulders and Newt stiffens because he can feel the skin of his back grow loose at the contact. "I don’t care.” It’s muffled, Hermann digs his nails into Newt’s failing body to keep him here. “Whatever happens. Just don’t die. Don’t leave me, god.”

Newt closes his eyes, puts his hands on Hermann’s shoulders and feels his new little claws snag on the cotton of his pajamas, opens his eyes to see that the blood still running sluggishly from the pits where his nails had been is slowly, steadily turning blue.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hermann tries to keep Newt in bed until it becomes obvious it’s not a viable option. Within a few hours the bedclothes, sheets and mattress are soaked through with a purplish mix of blood and Kaiju Blue, and clotted with gore as layers of Newt’s skin start to come off in sheets.

Moving him to the floor, wadding up the ruined blankets to keep him warm- that works for a bit, until Newt’s mouth starts to change. His teeth are long gone but now he’s choking up great fleshy gouts and without being able to get his head down he’s choking.

It’s slow, horrible work to get him to the bath. Newt’s fingers scrabble blindly on Hermann’s clothes as he fight to get him up, and his legs fold up, feet trailing senselessly, a new joint popping out between knee and ankle with a noise of sickening wet suction.

Newt makes a soft, broken noise against Hermann’s chest, fingers of one hand twitching. His other hand is so swollen it’s little more than a pad of flesh, and when he bangs it against the bath he  _screams_  - high and wild and wavering.

He huddles up inside the bath, hairs standing up and starting to bleed on what little human flesh remains on his body, he shivers despite the blankets Hermann is using to line the bath, and hangs his head over the side to be sick again, all red blood and splatters of his own flesh, sick and sick again until Newt is silently crying Kaiju blue tears and there is nothing Hermann can do but empty the container, rinse it quickly and bring it back. Again and again.

God, how can he still be alive? Hermann had thought- he’d been grateful- god, he’s been  _happy_ -  _“Just do_ _n’t die_ ” he’d said, because he couldn’t imagine anything worse, because he’d thought any life was better than- was better than-

This?

Newt’s stopped being sick. He’s slumped to the side of the bath, panting, eyes closed in a desperate attempt to find rest for the first time in forty eight hours. His breathing levels out slowly, deeper, more even. Hermann has no idea how this is even possible because two hours ago Newt was coughing up his own lung tissue but- He’s asleep. The room is quiet but for their soft breathing. For the first time in two days, Hermann can stop.

His leg folds up under him, and after so long shoving the pain away because there was no _time_ , it returns with a vengeance, howling and cutting deep until Hermann has to bite the inside of his mouth and wait for it to pass, grinding his knuckles into the spasming muscles.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even have the strength to get up. The electric lighting bleaches the walls bluish and makes his head ache. Newts face is a mass of peeling skin and blood, with only a few dark patches where something new is growing in. Something alien.

Everyone else exposed to Kaiju Blue had died before this point. Newt has all the symptoms- the loss of skin, the blood turning blue, the organ failure- but he simply isn’t dying.

Hermann thought he would be grateful. He thought this would be a blessing.

His voice is unrecognizable, thick and dull in his throat as he cries.

He must have slept there, in fits as his leg cramped and Newt moaned in his sleep- waking once to shriek again and again and when Hermann managed to get to him to see his eyes are screwed shut and blood beads the lashes and stains his mottled face red and blue, and Hermann- Hermann had sat there because there was nothing else. There were no more supplies in their first aid kit and when he tries to brush Newt’s hair the strands come off in his hands and there is nothing he can do- nowhere he can touch- that will not make things  _worse_ and his unhinged, sobbing mind seizes on anything- a sharp knife, a razorblade- that could make this  _stop-_

But it seems to slow down after that. Newt grasps and murmurs to himself and curls up in a stink of rotting skin and waste and blood.

And he sleeps. And Hermann, soaked, freezing, leg cramping in knots- Hermann sleeps too.

The clock reads 6.38 when he gets up, but it’s not 24 hour and it’s November so there’s no way of knowing if it’s morning or evening, or how many days have passed by now.

Hermann goes to the fridge and leaves bloody traces on the door. He doesn’t care. He eats two packets or raw vegetables and half a sliced ham before he manages to slow down. He can’t taste the food. There’s blood in his nose and mouth, and when he looks down at his hands the nails are coming loose.

He can’t even muster emotion, slumping over to lean his head on the freezer door and leaving a red smudge there. The cold feels good on his skin. He can feel it start to shift loosely against the pressure of the metal.

The sound of the shower running gets him moving again. The blankets are a sodden mess on the floor, and Newt is hunched under the spray, old blood and flesh running in rivulets down his new skin, chased away by the water and washed clean to show deep blue beneath, shattercracked with lighter lines, the horny ridges on his backbone raised so the water can wash beneath.

He looks up when Hermann comes in and leans on the door because his whole body is lean and cannot stand unsupported. His slit eyes are now blue too, bright and glowing and beautiful. His mouth opens, showing sharp, needle teeth.

“ _Hermann_ -” It’s gritty from disuse, from an alien voicebox and mouth and tongue. It’s high pitched with horror.

Hermann nods, once, and lets himself slide to the floor. He hears the clatter of claws on enamel, and a warm, chitinous body pressed close to his.

“ _Hermann Hermann Hermann_ -” Newt babbles, and Hermann closes his eyes, puts his aching, bleeding hands around Newt and lets them glide over the unfamiliar contours, find new places to nest and pull him close and listen to the deep rumble of an alien heart, the swift panicked pants of his breathing.

Alive.

Perhaps his very exhaustion will be kind to him, in the end. Perhaps he will be able to sleep through the worst of the pain.


	2. Adapt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to GluetheGrue for the wonderful art!

Hermann shudders under his hands, his skin is starting to peel as he gets him into the shower, moaning in pain as Newt fills the bath, “Please-“

"Shh," Newt strokes his hair, feels the strands flake off, bits of skin and blood clinging to them, "I survived, you’ll be okay."

"My hands-" Hermann whispers.

Newt’s face contorts, not wanted to look at the terrible mess. Hermann’s thumb and forefinger are okay- the skin peeling off, the nails turning black and loose- but the other three...

They are still covered in skin, but it’s been stretched so thin Newt can see every bone as they stretch, branching almost a meter long. Hermann screams every time they bang against the sides of the bath.

"I’m sorry." Newt settles next to him, tries to cradle his head.

"Make it stop-" the water reaches the monstrously elongated bones of his hands and he cries out again, "Make it stop!"

"I can’t-" he says helplessly.

Hermann looks up at him, his eyes are blurring as the veins turn blue. “Please.”

Newt’s stomach twists, “I can’t, please don’t ask-” his voice chokes.

Hermann closes his eyes, whimpering in pain. “Not like this,” he whispers, “Please, not like this.”

There’s nothing Newt can say. Hermann may not ever be able to use his hands again, probably won’t be able to walk- unless they can amputate the fingers.

Hermann mercifully looses consciousness before his hands can reach the end of the bath, and have to crook and bend.

His skin is mostly gone, his feet changed completely to great, heavy claws, a long tail curled up against the end of the bath. It won’t be long now-

Newt keeps his head up as he pours a bit more food down Hermann’s throat- his eyes flutter, he moans, but he eats; and maybe he doesn’t seem to be in as much pain as before.

He’s so _light_ \- he’s not much thinner but he must have lost about half of his body weight;

His grotesque hands tremble as Newt eases him back down, and Newt pauses, because there’s something odd-

He hasn’t touched Hermann’s hands since this began, for fear of causing him more pain, but he does now, gently lifting them, and spreading the impossibly long fingers.

The webbing is already halfway down their length, pale blue on new growth, darker further back.

Newt blinks and suddenly, he can see it- the lightness of body must be hollow bones, the long tail as a rudder, the webbed hands-

Newt smiles for what feels like the first time in weeks because- oh Hermann, Hermann who had always dreamed of being a pilot, an astronaut, Hermann who is going to get his wildest dream.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermann opens his eyes, his body shudders and Newt’s clawed hands are on him in the next moment, steadying him. He moans, shuddering with anticipated pain-

Which does not come. The relief of it is almost too much; he tucks his head against Newt’s forearm and shivers with it.

"It’s okay," Newt strokes his back, and Hermann feels his heavy palm skate over jutting bones and edges- an alien body. "You’re fine, you’re _gorgeous._ “

"My hands," he manages, the spectre of the pain still buzzing in his veins.

"Your hands are wonderful, just looks at them."

He turns his face away- the pain, the memory of the hideous stalks of bone endlessly _growing_ from his hands- “I can’t.“

"Sure you can," Newt gently turns his head- they are on the bed, somehow, his body still damp from the bath- and points his face to look down at himself. "Open your eyes Herms, it’s good."

How could it be? But Hermann opens his eyes anyway.

His body is a slight, twisted thing, bones jutting from every angle. His tail- _his tail_ \- heavy and broad and twitching. His hands-

He closes his eyes again, but has to open them at once, unable to look away from the horror-

His fingers are almost as long as the rest of him; trailing along the bedclothes, only his thumb and forefinger are roughly the same size as before- how will he be able to eat- to type- to _work_ -

"Here." and Newt _takes his hands._

He flinches, but the pain doesn’t come, his fingers are dull, half numb, tender between somehow-

_Oh_.

He stares, and Newt grins, spreading his fingers open to show the webbing bright and blue-swirled between, “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

Hermann cannot speak, his mind skips over the realisation, not daring to believe for fear he’s wrong.

"You can fly." Newt says it for him. "I checked; you’re light enough, and they’re big enough- you can use your tail for a rudder- we’ll get you a few good meals and maybe we could go out and-" he trails off, Hermann isn’t listening.

He gets up, slow and stiff, slides his strange stubby legs over the edge of the bed; and spreads his wings.

They open so wide he cannot extend them fully, they brush the walls and scratch on the paint.

The webbing between shines brighter the wider they go, the thinner they spread- glowing in swirls and dancing blue light, like galaxies trapped between thin membranes.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermann has never been so glad of their isolation. Newt takes their mountain of letters and a laptop outside, getting ready to- somehow- answer the endless queries of what was happening and were they okay.

Hermann is just glad he’s been spared this; with only two fingers on each hand, his typing time is horrendously slow and he is still getting used to holding a pen.

Their garden leads into the woods, a good few hundred meter of clear ground between him and the edge of the trees; he climbs on the bench for a little height and hesitates, embarrassed.

Newt glaces up from where he’s surrounding himself with paper, by the pond. He gives Hermann an encouraging smile.

Hermann looks away, spreads his wings. He closes his eyes but can’t quite shake the image of himself- human, _he’s human he’s always been human!_  How can he ever be anything else- standing on the edge of the bench. Childishly, arms open, pretending to fly.

His father had always scorned him for that.

Hermann shakes himself and, before his mind has time to dredge up any more useless recollections, jumps.

The fear bursts in him  _oh gott he’s going to crash his leg he’s fallen off the ladder he’s going to_ -

The wind catches under his wings, lifts. Hermann opens his eyes in time to see the ground rush up to meet him.

Newt is wincing when he rolls over and gets up, “Okay, that was- that could have been better, but you got a couple of meters, so that’s something.”

Hermann glances back, sees that- yes, there are about two meters of grass between him and the bench now. He hops up, lopes unsteadily between wing-hands and short legs back to the bench to try again.

This time, he keeps his eyes open, he beats his wings the moment he jumps and feels a sudden, roaring  _lift_ \- the world slipping away, just a little-

His tail scours the grass, slowing him and knocking him off balance, his back legs hit next and he flumps to the ground again- breathless.

Newt pads over, apparently abandoning their letters. “You need to keep your tail up- and maybe tuck your legs in better-“

“Yes,  _thank you_ , I’d like to see you do any better!” Hermann snaps with an irritation he doesn’t feel; for a moment, he had been  _flying._  “Get out of the way, please.”

Newt rolls his eyes and retreats, watching as Hermann climbs up again.

He leans forward this time, remembers how it felt like to swim, the urge to drop his legs down having to be resisted, lying on the water, trusting it to hold him-

He kicks back with his legs, tries to lift his rear into the air at the same time as bringing his wings down- and yes- the  _lift,_ the scooping solidity of the air under his wings as he pushes against it, hauling himself up-

His tail brushes the grass and he grits his teeth, sweeping it up and using that as a counterbalance to beat his wings again and oh- oh-

The world sweeps away, just that little more, the detail of the grass blurring to a sea of green, the spread of the pond a defined circle; again, and now he can feel the pressure of the thermals, rising up from the land- his wings spread even wider, so thin as to almost disappear in the cloudless blue of the sky, drinking up the extra lift-

"Hermann!”

Hermann jerks up- the forest is a solid wall of a green, barring his way- for a moment he almost furls his wings and risks the ten-foot drop down-

Then grins sharp teeth, and beats his wings again, and again, over and over until his muscles scream- he’s moving faster, the leaves and branches blotting his vision, fear hammers in his heart-

But with a final burst, he forces himself up the last few feet, the trees blurring under him, his wings bursting out broad and wide, gliding until he can gain a little more height.

Their home is a perfect picture cottage, their lawn a broad grass square; Newt is bounding around it, waving two arms and shouting something inaudible in the slipstream.

The sun buoys him up, the wind fills his wings, the sky is open and waiting; Hermann draws in a sweet, perfect breath, and  _soars_.


End file.
